In Time
by Maglor Makalaure
Summary: A short romance between Maglor and his lover, a somewhat tense discussion with his father, and a lecture from his brothers.


**A/n: Slightly teenager-ish, as Maglor is only just past his majority in this story – I probably would not write Galadriel's love life like this. This is a romance that probably should have been in _The Traveller_, but I suppose it works as a one-shot as well. Failawendë is, in my stories, Maglor's wife, whom he incidentally left behind in Valinor. The story of how they met is in TT. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own _The Silmarillion_. **

**In Time**

She had been browsing in the library, fingering old leather-bound volumes and perusing their contents, when she saw him. He was sitting by one of the deep, stained-glass windows, chin in hand, studiously scribbling at a piece of parchment, a few books piled to one side. One of them was open, with a pressed leaf used as a bookmark in the middle of the page, and he kept glancing at the letters, giving an occasional sigh.

She crept quietly up to him, making sure not to disturb the other people who were reading. As she drew closer his precariously positioned hair parted at the nape of his neck, swinging over his shoulder and revealing his skin, white as a drift of snow. So engrossed in his studies was he that he started when she placed a hand on his arm, and for a moment only blinked at her as if she was a stranger. Then his features relaxed, and he gestured for her to sit down opposite him. She did so, and quickly wrote on some paper she had been carrying, "Walk with me outside?" and gave it to him. He read it and frowned, shaking his head. He wrote back, "I have work to do and I still have not corrected my students' examinations."

It was her turn to frown. She got up carefully, cast him an annoyed look, and went away. Makalaurë heaved a sigh, realising he would not be spoken to by his lover if he denied her, even if she was only joking. So he rose to his feet, gathered his books and his papers, tucked them into his leather satchel, and followed her.

He found her at the bottom of the grand staircase, leaning against the marble wall. She smiled mischievously when she saw him, and took his hand, and together they walked into the silver light of Telperion.

Tirion was beautiful by day, stunning by night. Its walls gleamed like beaten mithril, and its gold-tipped spires darkened, glimmering gently in the Tree-Light, and the stars shone like polished diamonds against a velvet sky. Lanterns swung from the branches of trees that paved the white roads, and pipers sat at window-panes and played sweet music.

Failawendë clutched her lover's hand, put her nose against his shoulder, and thought there was no music that equalled even his voice when he talked. The bards of Alqualondë were no match for him. She breathed in his scent of sandalwood and old paper, and he glanced at her quizzically. She merely giggled quietly, and led him to the side of the hill to a primrose-filled garden where they sat down on the dewy grass and looked towards Valimar and the Two Trees.

They had done this countless times before, and had never tired of it. Words were of little use with a view such as this, with blazing silver light gathered at a point in the distance and slowly making its way in all directions, becoming fainter but never weaker, and the lights scattered across the city of the Vanyar. So they sat in silence, leaning against each other, not needing touches or idle prattle to pass the time. Makalaurë fished for something in his satchel, and brought out bread and hard cheese, and a skin of good red wine, and they ate, gazing into the horizon.

Time meant little in Aman, and they wasted a great deal of it like this in each other's company. Eventually Failawendë turned to the minstrel and said, "Shall I plait your hair? It looks as though it was not combed this morning." She was loath to break the silence, but wanted to fondle his supple locks, too. She loved threading her fingers through his hair, feelings its lightness and its familiar warmth, watching the dark strands caught with silver ripple against his firm back.

He nodded with a 'hm', and she knelt behind him and gleefully began to part his hair. He caught her expression of childish delight and laughed softly, eyes bright even in the dim light.

When Laurelin began to wax, they rose with sighs and regrets, and promised to meet again soon. Failawendë went back to her home in the middle of the city, and Makalaurë went to the library, in the stables of which he had kept his horse, and rode back to his father's house, his plait stirring behind him.

* * *

"Where are you going?"

Makalaurë halted by the entry to his father's study, which was, surprisingly, left open. This meant that either Fëanáro was too engrossed in his work to think about shutting the door, or that he had deliberately left it open to catch him, somehow; he suspected the latter. Since Makalaurë's bedroom was situated near the corner of the same corridor, he always had to pass the study when he left; he had been going out more than usual lately, finishing his work during the afternoon or early in the morning.

"To Tirion, Father." He tried to look as nonchalant as possible, though his heart was thumping furiously in his chest.

"That is evident," said Fëanáro, running his eyes over his son's riding cloak and laced boots. He was sitting at his desk, wearing unusually fine clothes, working on a gem-studded necklace for his father; his room was always full of unfinished trinkets and piles of books and little tools meant for shaping or cutting. It was one of the few rooms without carpets, since it was terribly hard to clean. "_Why_ are you going?"

Makalaurë paused a moment too long before opening his mouth, by which time Fëanáro had cut him off: "I think I have an idea as to why you are leaving so late and have a silver ribbon in your hair – you do not wear such things when giving a lecture or teaching a class."

The minstrel's mouth remained open, wagging a few times. He could think of no sufficient excuse to escape his father's possible looming wrath, and he felt like a schoolboy awaiting corporal punishment (despite the fact that he was a man who was hailed as the finest musician in Aman and who held a prestigious position at the University of Tirion as both a bard and a linguist. He was young, but already quite accomplished).

But the wrath did not come. Fëanáro merely scoffed, turned back to his necklace, and said, "You would sully my blood so readily, Makalaurë? Why do you hide it from me? Is she a Vanya?" His tone was cold, accusing, and Makalaurë felt his inherited stubbornness take hold of his mind. He would have said, "Blood is impossible to sully without poison or some other noxious substance," but that would have earned him a sharp cuff on the ear or a more painful reprimand, so he settled for saying: "She is not a Vanya – I would not so openly betray you, Father."

"A Telerin girl."

Makalaurë cast his eyes to the ground. "Yes. But I am not sorry. If you are concerned about colour, her hair is dark, so you have nothing to fear, and if you wish for a Noldorin daughter, you have three other sons – one is sure to marry into our kind."

"I know you would not be; you are my son, after all. She must be a commoner, then." He chuckled, then said, his tone almost dispassionate, "I have no problems here. You can court her for all I care." Few people understood the generosity of that statement. The approval of the High Prince for anything was hard to even imagine, even by his own sons. When given, it was cherished almost as a mother cherishes her child. "How long have you been seeing her, though? Or dare I ask, by your expression?"

Makalaurë reddened and cleared his throat.

"Spit it out."

"Three years."

"We will talk about this later," came the flat reply. "You're in trouble." Fëanáro picked up a pair of pliers; they shone in the candlelight. Makalaurë took this as a dismissal, shook his head, and advanced towards the serpentine staircase that led to the Great Hall, trying not to think about the no doubt ugly consequences of his actions. The sounds of a great bustle came from downstairs: servants chattering and the chink of crockery and Nerdanel's voice.

"Have you forgotten about tonight?" his father called. Makalaurë stopped short. "Tonight?" he asked stupidly. He heard a heavy, impatient sigh, and his hands flew to his hair. "Oh, no! Tonight is...oh, oh! The feast for the festival of Yavanna! I am such a fool!" He ran back to his chamber, cursing. So that's why his father was clad in such finery! He gritted his teeth as he threw open his oak closet, trying to decide what to wear. He would have to explain to Failawendë why he could not meet her tonight – he was not looking forward to that.

He cursed again, berating himself for his foolishness, flinging out an embroidered, cobalt-blue tunic of silk, and a pair of cream leggings. As he was rummaging for his jewellery, someone opened the door to his chamber; it was Tyelkormo, already dressed in green and gold, his flaxen hair tied in an intricate braid that was probably their mother's work and that was held with a large jade clip. "Come downstairs! The first guests have already arrived – they're early." He suddenly made a confused noise. "Káno! What on earth...? Why in heaven's name are you in your riding clothes?"

"Get downstairs, Turko, before Mother gets angry," he jabbered, hastily pulling of his cloak and his waistcoat. "I will be down in a few minutes. Tell the others to get moving in the mean time."

"You are incredibly bossy, you know," the other snapped, and exited the room. Makalaurë groaned and put his head in his hands. This day was not going well, and he doubted the next few fortnights would be any better.

* * *

The next time he was able even to write to Failawendë was in thirty days. A ruckus had been caused at their house, with every member of the family save Fëanáro pestering him about 'this Telerin woman', about where he had met her and why he had kept this from them, and how he was such a great disappointment as a brother, especially to Maitimo who was possibly his closest friend. He tried to fend them off or ignore them, but it was hard; the wife and the scions of the eldest son of King Finwë burned with a fey and strong passion, and none were the sort to give up easily.

Maitimo and Tyelkormo were the hardest to reason with.

"I cannot _believe_ you!" fumed Maitimo. "I never expected you to keep such a thing from me! _Why_, Káno?" His voice was angry, but also sad, and Makalaurë felt guilt tear at his heart. "I didn't do it deliberately," he said. "It is just that, I had been seeing her for so long without telling you that it would have caused total chaos if I did."

"Well, now you've done it," put in Tyelkormo with a fair amount of sarcasm. "You've caused double the chaos you anticipated."

"All right, all right! I have had enough! I apologise! I have already been given a lecture by Father that lasted a day and a half, and have been made to clean that massive forge on my own and help sweep the kitchens – the attendants were laughing at me for a fortnight – and I am so behind on my work for university that I won't be able to finish it even if I don't sleep for a month! And I've been teased and ridiculed by every person in this house to boot, grooms and maids included!"

"Serves you right," returned Tyelkormo, tossing his head in the manner of a young colt too eager to leave the stables. "In fact, I expected a harsher punishment. Three years! Sweet heavens, I could not imagine anyone doing something like that! And from our intellectual, well behaved minstrel of a brother! Well, I never!"

Secretly, Makalaurë agreed that his father had been very lenient with him. It was a far-fetched idea, but he was expecting a whipping or at the very least a letter to inform his university that he could no longer work or study there. Then again, Fëanáro himself had married a common girl at a ridiculously young age and had refused a position at the palace, and perhaps he realised that rebellion ran in the family. Not to mention that Makalaurë had never slacked off on his duties, and remained in the good books of everyone at court and in the academic world (both Rúmil and Elemmírë acknowledged him as the finest of prodigies), so that could have been a reason as well.

Nevertheless, he awaited Failawendë's reply with thinly veiled impatience, keeping himself busy with his books and his family. He did not see her at the university or in the park, or even in the library. When the reply did not come even after forty days, he sighed and decided to pay her house a visit.

On a mild evening he rode to her house, a small bungalow some ten miles from the university, and dismounted. The front door was locked and probably barred from the inside, so he skirted the house and came to the small, lush back garden that glittered with fresh dew. It was slightly overgrown, but he liked it that way. Failawendë said she left it like that because she enjoyed the atmosphere, but they both knew it was because she had a lot of work (she was also a tutor, albeit in a separate department from Makalaurë) and was too lazy and busy to trim it.

There was a latticed window from which firelight was streaming through the partially closed, dahlia-patterned curtains. Bringing out his short whip Makalaurë used to gently spur his horse, he tapped the window three times, then took a step back and waited. After a moment he heard footsteps and then the curtains parted, revealing Failawendë's startled face. She pushed open one side of the window and hissed, "What are you doing here at this hour? And why now, when you did not contact me for so long? You even refused to meet me as you promised." Her perfumed hair, touching her hips, stirred in the breeze, and Makalaurë realised how much he had missed it.

"I am sorry," he said, putting away his whip. "Did you not receive my letter? Or did you simply not open it? I don't really blame you. My family found out about us – "

"It is about time they did," she put in. "My parents know about you – I have written to them – yet you hid me from yours as if I was a thing of shame – "

"Failawendë, you know it is not that! My father just guessed – and I have paid the price for it in the past few weeks, so forgive me!" He drew closer, reaching out to her with a gloved hand, but she pulled back, folding her arms against her pale bosom, only slightly visible beneath the embroidery on the edge of her deep green dress. Vaguely, Makalaurë thought she would have suited royalty well – she had intelligence and airs in copious amounts. In other words, exactly like him. "My family wishes to know you," he said wearily. "Won't you come and meet them soon?"

"I will think about it," she said coolly, her blue eyes flecked with gold from the firelight. Makalaurë's shoulders sagged a bit, then he said, "May I come in?"

She made an indignant noise, raising her brows. When he did not show signs of going away, she breathed a sigh and opened the window fully. He climbed in, using the frame for support, and entered her living room. It was a cozy chamber with a somewhat low ceiling and large, comfortable sofas. A bowl filled with fruits sat on a wooden table, and portraits and landscapes – all her own – hung on the white walls. A fire roared lustily in the hearth in a corner.

Makalaurë smiled in content as Failawendë came up behind him, holding a half-finished shawl stuck with bodkins, and suddenly turned round and pulled her into a kiss, breathing deep her scent. He let go quickly, beaming, and said, "Well, I am finished here."

"_What_?" she said. "Is that all you came in for? Makalaurë!" But he had already leapt out the window, laughing like a daisy.

Some months later, when he was in his father's library, he stumbled upon a book that had a long, dark brown hair among the aged pages. He arched a brow, realising that Failawendë must have been using it, for no one in their family had hair of that colour. Then a twinkle came to his eye, and he reached for his braid, breaking off a curled black strand, and placed it beside the one he had found.

_That ought to confound this lot for some time_, he thought, leaning back in his chair with satisfaction.

* * *

**Notes**:

**About Failawendë's hair: I assume Fëanor would favour dark hair over fair hair (despite the fact that his mother canonically had silver hair and Celegorm in my stories has a similar colour) as a symbol of the blood of the Noldor. Also, I've noticed that, while the Teleri are stated to have hair that is either dark or silver, Telerin royalty always possess the latter. Hence, in my stories, most Telerin commoners have dark hair. **

**Makalaurë - Maglor**

**Fëanáro - Fëanor**

**Tyelkormo - Celegorm**

**Maitimo - Maedhros**


End file.
